


Touch Faith

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captured and detained, Mohinder's mind goes through a series of possibilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch Faith

_“All the pain held in,   
Your hands are shaking cold,   
Your hands are mine to hold.” _  
**-All-American Rejects**, _**Move Along**_

It is not as if Mohinder really has anything to compare it to. Handholding is not exactly a regular part of his day, beyond a cordial handshake when the occasion commands it. With circumstances being what they are, he is sure that he is over-thinking himself right out of making sense.

Besides, it is not so much handholding as it is fingers grasping, trying to intertwine in a futile attempt at comfort. Blinded by the cloth bag over his head, Mohinder is forced to rely on his other senses and an overactive imagination. None of which is particularly reliable at the moment—but they will have to do.

He knew through deduction that he was not alone. After being drugged into a hazy stupor and forced into the orange jumpsuit assigned to all prisoners (_detainee_ was the word used by the government agent) and bagged, Mohinder felt restraints clamped around his ankles and wrists. He heard clanging, like a chain was being looped and fed along, and strong arms grabbed his shoulders, pushing him forward, nearly causing him to trip.

The murmuring of a multitude of voices filled his ears but there was nothing coherent that would offer up clues. Instead there was the distant sound of a woman crying to his left and the uneasy feeling of bodies pressed together into a tight space. He was shuffled to and fro by the tense and agitated movements of those around him until a stern and authoritative voice ordered them all to, “Shut up and stay still!”

A few minutes later he—they—were prodded to walk…somewhere. It was noisy, so loud that Mohinder could hardly hear himself think and the mechanical groaning of the machine he was moving towards (_into_) filled the bag and bounced off the fabric walls as if the sound waves could not find a way to escape. Mohinder had traveled enough to guess he was boarding a rather large aircraft. It was certainly different from a passenger plane and he bit his lower lip nervously out of fright for what lay beyond.

Booted feet thumped methodically, with a booming precision of steps, around him and Mohinder pictured soldiers with guns carrying out their ordered mission, a mission he had hoped would never take place yet worked hard to evade nonetheless. Unexpectedly he was forced to sit down and his hands were placed on the armrests on either side of his seat and locked into place. He listened as muffled voices raised in annoyance then shut down. He supposed that there were others like him on either side, but how many in total and who they were specifically remained a mystery.

One fact he could lay claim to was that they were Specials, incredibly powered people leapfrogging human evolution forward; and himself, included for his research with them and the questionable discovery he had made that would give everyone, whether born with them or not, abilities. What had once seemed incredible and rife with possibility had turned into a nightmarish reality of dystopian proportions.

This was never supposed to happen and the cruelty, ignorance and willful misunderstanding of humans towards one another disgusted and shamed him. The world had been covered over by a black veil, reclassifying citizens in the most subversive ways. The horrible truth was that the majority of the world’s population was unaware that this was happening or that people like this even existed. They went about their normal lives; all the while the very fabric of society was being undone one thread at a time.

Worse still was to know that Nathan, whom Mohinder had once regarded in more respectable terms, was at the heart of the containment order for reasons that were unclear, beyond a narcissistic self-interest in personal political gain. Mohinder imagined he was better than that, but even he could not play ignorant of his own selfish missteps that had played a part in making the present come to light. Unintentional as it was, and at least he had that to cling to versus Nathan’s eyes wide open brutality, it reminded Mohinder that he was not as far removed from that which he despised.

Thoughts of a secret detainment center spiked Mohinder’s heart and he shivered at the sting of sweat pooling down his neck despite the chill of the unknown environment. He felt utterly alone—and just after he had begun to feel like he was creating a life for himself in New York, removed from his father’s path and the subsequent research with The Company and Pinehurst. Although he had taken to driving a cab again he had recently set up a job interview at NYU (with Nirshand’s help) when he was grabbed from out of his bed (the gall and brazenness of which still shocks him) and—

The rest was history.

That he was still doing independent research into genetic anomalies, on his own, may have played a role in his being considered a sizeable threat, but that did not stop his capture and imprisonment from feeling surreal. Maybe curiosity _did_ kill the cat. Peter had warned him to be careful but even then the younger Petrelli was uselessly trying to channel what remained of his powers into his new job as a paramedic in training, hardly flying under the radar. They had joked about it over thrice weekly dinners that now seem naïve and innocent. A lot of ‘do as I say, not as I do,’ bandied about as well meaning yet ultimately unsolicited advice.

The aircraft’s engine rumbled louder and Mohinder breathed in and out heavily, tasting the stale, hot and stifling air that almost suffocated him. Instinctively he stretched out his right hand and unexpectedly felt his fingers being touched and reached for by the—_left hand_?—of the person to his right. In normal circumstances Mohinder would pull back, but this was anything but normal and the first trace of affectionate human contact—unexpectedly comforting even in his unclear daze—sprung tears to the corner of his eyes.

His first reaction is to try to assert his touch more firmly in return in an awkward attempt to acknowledge, in some small way, that he is here and, as yet, unbroken. He thinks that if he can imprint himself on this moment it will all somehow be okay; he will be found, he will survive whatever cataclysmic destiny lies spread out in front of him that he first visualized at the tail end of gossip but now pounds its existence on his psyche. Mohinder considers the touch as a breadcrumb, at once simplistic and consequentially epic.

Then his mind explodes beyond the inner turmoil that twists him inside out and he wonders whom it is who has managed to anchor him to hope, refusing to let him ricochet into a darkened abyss. It is most likely a stranger, only bound to him through a turn of evolutionary fate, but still Mohinder gives over to the remote chance that fate has assigned him a known companion in the darkest days.

The fingers are long. Relief floods him at the realization that it is not a child. Molly’s face flashes before him, smiling but sad, and he sucks in a sharp intake of breath. There are so many innocent lives unraveling before they have the chance to know the cost of fighting back. The painful reminder of the unprotected, those who are subject to rules beyond their grasp, is a penance for the consequence of his own actions. That Molly could be experiencing this, yet another foul up in her already traumatic life, is a precision wound to Mohinder’s heart.

But these are not her tiny fingers curled into his and he wills into being the belief that she is safe with Matt and Janice. It is this steadfast will that prompts him to keep going forward with the most basic yet important of accomplishments. Molly having some semblance of a home, finally, has been the silver lining of a rather inconsistent life. Holding onto that deigns the faintest glimmer of hope for Mohinder that not all is lost. To give thought to the alternative—

Molly would tell him to wish upon a star, but Mohinder would rather it was Hiro next to him signaling some strange code that soon enough this too will disappear into the void of unlived futures. A traveling man unbound by time and space would be a miracle right now and although Mohinder still wants to believe in those (or a fortunate coincidence as his father would preferably term it), it seems a lost cause. Listening to the roar of the engines, Mohinder is certain that escape or a proper stand of defiance will only be able to take place once the final destination is reached.

Right now limbo is purgatory and the noise that fills his ears is the bridge between the old world and hell on earth. Mohinder recalls Hiro mentioning once that there had been a future not too different from this one that Mohinder had proven to be a key figure in for turning it around. The story was scary and fantastical for the society it detailed, but on his own, Mohinder ruminated on it more than once, especially as the present became increasingly worrisome. It was one thing to believe that he had the strength of mind and courage of his convictions to do what needed to be done in the face of deadly opposition, but to hear that he _had _done it—

It still raises the hair on his arms, creating a stinging friction with the sleeves of his jumpsuit. It is an empowering piece of information that carries with it the heavy burden of responsibility. Mohinder knows he _must_ act, it is demanded and it is destined. He sighs the exhaustion of understanding and tries to shift his feet, but they are locked in place. In forced compromise he wiggles his tones to ensure that he maintains some control over his body. Next he wiggles the fingers of his right hand against his neighbour’s and, feeling the tentative response, pictures Peter.

_Please let it be him. _

Not that he would ever wish Peter’s capture but the friendship that has grown between them is bar none. If anyone could make this seem like less of a catastrophic fiasco for Mohinder, if anyone could make him feel less alone, it would be Peter.

Their own road had been difficult enough, and upon reflection Mohinder was all the more mindful of the unintentional hurt he had caused Peter. Disbelieving him the first time around could be justified but nearly performing maddening experiments on him at the order of his father, Arthur, at Pinehurst is something Mohinder has never forgiven himself for.

In the aftermath of misdeeds, Mohinder had tried to apologize, and though Peter said it was unnecessary and pretended to brush it off as an uncontrollable act of survival, Mohinder recognized the reservation in his eyes and the coldness in the enacted distance placed between them.

So it went until Peter one day slipped into the backseat of his cab and, meeting Mohinder’s surprised eyes in the rearview mirror, offered up a lopsided grin and asked him, “Ever get the feeling like you were meant to do something extraordinary?” It was more than a casual joke harkening back to their first meeting. It was a gesture of forgiveness. Peter was allowing the two of them to start anew. It did not wipe the slate clean as much as it locked past mistakes away with a knowing wink.

Whatever it was that changed Peter’s mind (most likely his innate compassion) Mohinder was grateful for the third chance. And it was charmed. In the weeks and months that followed, the two of them developed a bond Mohinder had not thought himself to be missing. Not since India had he had such a good friend and even in that regard Peter was far more. He became a true confidante.

They shared with each other their most guarded thoughts, even the ones that Mohinder had promised himself never to utter aloud out of embarrassment and confusion about—

Mohinder shakes his head and presses harder against the stranger’s hand. The aircraft lurches forward on the tarmac then proceeds forward. Mohinder swallows back the bile that rises in his throat and prays his stomach will settle, although whether it is in response to his current predicament or the unexpected remembrance of the most haunting part of his past, he cannot be sure. The last thing he needs is to throw up with his head covered and no discernable way out. First he tries to ignore his queasy stomach but when that does not work he focuses on insisting it not act of its own accord.

He supposes one of the reasons Peter turned into the best kind of friend was his lack of stubborn judgment. Peter had been undone by the expectations and false promises of many around him, including his own parents and brother. He had learned the hard way about self-serving lies. As terrible as it was for Peter, the comparison put Mohinder in far more agreeable light. Besides, the truth was that Mohinder’s mistakes had come out of a desire to do good for others. Peter’s ability to recognize that, to see the distinctions between the motivations for different peoples actions was something Mohinder admired.

It was through Peter that Mohinder became included in a small but tight group of paramedics from work. The comfort of being able to joke over dinner with a group of friends around a table or cheer together in front of the tv while watching a basketball game was another piece of Mohinder’s normal and fallible life falling into place.

As trouble beneath the surface got worse with Nathan leading the charge to round up ‘persons of interest’ as the official tag line went but was more appropriately (and less glamorously) referred to as ‘bag and tag,’ Peter and Mohinder’s time together became more sparse. As a safety precaution, distance was agreed upon and Peter detailed a story about family abroad for their friends to cover his covert tracks while they looked for ways to counter the political and social strife as it unfolded.

If it is too late for a preemptive strike, Mohinder is caught between hoping Peter is out there waiting to swoop in and wishing he is next to him; a band of brothers in heart, if not blood. The only other person Mohinder would (_could_) count on—except not…Still _his_ face scampers across Mohinder’s mind, uninvited, and Mohinder wonders how that would actually play out, in all its strangeness.

“No,” Mohinder mutters and the vocalized sound bounces off the cloth barrier that encumbers his face.

Now he guesses that the fingers against his own belong to a woman. It is a welcome distraction from his runaway mind playing games but in itself it raises questions.

Maybe the universe has conspired to put Maya next to him as a reminder of his pseudo scientific triumph and human fallibility. He had never meant for what happened to be anything deeper but an impersonal physical attraction was as much to blame as the serum that took hold of his mind and drove him to the extremes he normally would have censored.

Beyond thinking she was a sweet person with a strong will and an appreciative participant in his testing (as well as potentially very powerful if her ability was harnessed) Mohinder did not see her in the same way she appeared to regard him. Then again, he figured she was as distraught and overcome by the circumstances her life had shrouded her in and had reached out for the same shred of human contact as he had. It made neither of them wrong, rather lonely and jaded.

Yet he knew that in the end he was the one who (under the influence or not) _had _taken the most advantage and as such absolution was only hers to give. He had cared about her, though not in the way that would have made it all better or far worse. Her well being still matters and in the off chance that this is her, he curls his fingers around hers as tightly as possible—and is grateful to feel hers mold into the curves of his own.

Of course, it is just as likely to be Tracy who, surprisingly, befriended him in the wake of his misguided self-experimentation and ultimately forced stint at Pinehurst. Setting out on his own, crushed by his own wrongs and the unyielding need to start over again, she was the one who helped him complete the trek to old hallowed ground.

For awhile they kept in touch with her watching carefully over him as he healed and struggled to stay on his two feet. With hindsight Mohinder saw he put too much faith in her kindness, thankful for the show of concern (and willingness to turn a blind eye to his worrying past acts towards her) without considering the big picture.

Tracy was not Niki. She was far more like Nathan, guided by personal gain than the good of many, and soon enough her true colours shone through in her incessant questions about his research and the increasingly volatile frustration she expressed with his disagreement over how his work should be used.

Her calculated way of speaking, the condescension in her tone, reminded Mohinder of egomaniacs who stop at nothing to make the world their playground. He had been just as relieved when she stopped showing an interest in his life, presumably to find someone else to attach her lofty aspirations to. Yet, if this is her, he cannot help but feel sorry that once again she has been turned out by the very life she craves so wantingly. In his own way he understands that crushing blow.

An invisible force pushes against his chest and the noise of the aircraft roars louder. Mohinder can hear the gears clicking into place and the sound of them moving at an indescribable speed forward. He strains under the force and grits his teeth, squeezing his hopeful grip.

If it is Monica he will be disappointed to imagine such a bright and promising person reduced to this torture. He had admired her openness to not only embrace her ability, but put it to good use. The last time he had spoken to her (and Micah) she was vague but tongue-in-cheek about rebuilding the community. Her strength and positive outlook was infectious and he hates contemplating her light being snuffed out with little regard for the loss.

He feels the aircraft begin to angle, pressing him back against the seat, and his mind chaotically jumps to a multitude of worse case situations. Suddenly it is like the ground is being pulled away and they are airborne.

A great irony would be if it were Claire. Noah had devoted his life to protecting her at all costs, which had backfired on numerous occasions. And since her first meeting with Mohinder resulted in him shooting Noah in the face, there was little love lost between them. Maybe being the children of those who thought that the best way to protect was through forced ignorance, however, was actually a tie that bound them. Their personal similarities had become more pronounced in the few times they had met since, because of Peter.

Then again maybe it was the fact they both enjoyed Peter’s company—either way a tentative peace had been struck under Noah’s discerning eye. If she is the one (and despite her cool countenance with him he has seen the care she shows for those she is close to) it would be a fitting turn of the screw to place the breakable and the invulnerable side-by-side, victims of circumstance and their own doing.

If only it were—

“No,” Mohinder grunts as he scolds himself again for even thinking about…but his brain refuses to co-operate and respect his wishes to not consider the remote possibility of having…

It is not that Mohinder would expect to be saved by him but that in this bewildering landscape it is not the worst thing that could happen. In fact, if he imagined the person in his snug grasp to be—

Sylar.

The recurring factor of uncertainty.

He is the flesh and blood nightmare; time stamped and dated into existence and into Mohinder’s life. He is false hope behind stormy eyes, the prophecy foretold—if only Mohinder had looked closer. He had wanted to believe in the truth of goodness once and it had been catastrophic. But spiraling out of control, Mohinder is unable to reign in his mind from going to the extreme compulsion of contemplation.

Alongside Peter, Sylar’s abilities are spellbinding and the attack they could deliver together in the face of fascist government acts would begin a massive counter-resistance. How much trust factors into the equation, Mohinder does not dwell. After all, in times like these, a good memory may be more of a hindrance than help. But he is aware that being able to count on the person next to him is paramount, and Sylar is not someone who puts others first; even if Peter has pointed out that Sylar has yet to try to kill Mohinder in all their combative altercations—hurt, yes, kill, not even close. There had come a time when Mohinder stopped arguing the point because the hollowness of his own words only strengthened the assertion being made and understood.

For a moment Mohinder dismisses the possibility of Sylar being the one to fold their fingers together for the sharp opposition of vulnerability and closeness it suggests from someone who has appeared to be anything but. Then he recalls the anxious phone call when Sylar was worried about commiting mass murder and the chilly but desperate need for Mohinder to help him regain his abilities. Even in those examples the stark difference between the Sylar who killed with no remorse and the man he had joked with in the car, speaking on an array of subjects (that Mohinder thought were of interest only to him) and blatantly seeking help, had confused…and made sense. Why should the dichotomy be any less fathomable now?

Mohinder feels the aircraft start to level out and he prepares himself for an indefinite trip towards an unknown destination. It will be more than enough time for his mind to either render him useless or play out a multitude of battle scenarios that will make him feel less impotent.

In Mohinder’s minds eye the fingers entangled with his become a bit thicker and rougher to the touch at the knuckles and joints. He imagines them as holding still and only moving with intent in the action and purpose coursing through the tendons and up the arm. He sees immaculately groomed nails and softness to the texture of the skin around the tips. They are a comfortably familiar extension of conflicting traits, beliefs, and ways of being.

Where once Mohinder would have recoiled from the scathing discrepancies, in a bid to isolate himself behind protective walls in self defense, he now clings urgently, knowing that the declared judgments draw out the line between their similarities and the truth he must stop running from and begin dealing with.

_We’re in this together,_ the grasp proclaims between them.

It is no longer disappointment or disgust that greets the disturbing promise spoken in a smooth and taunting voice that sounds out a quiet but prominent smirk with a tinge of longing in the upturned inflection at the end instead of the definitive low tone one might expect; a surprised affirmation where even the speaker cannot believe what is being said.

How Mohinder’s life has become so inexplicably interconnected with Sylar’s is maybe best left up to the fates. Over and over they have crossed paths at life altering precipices. Short or long, Mohinder has seen his own life’s direction altered beyond any preconceived expectations. Keeping in mind the circumstances under which Sylar has reappeared, Mohinder can reasonably assume the same applies to him.

_Why,_ hangs in the air. Why them? What is the cryptic key that unlocks the secret to their destiny or luck of the draw to be continuously reunited? Why does a baffling degree of understanding reside in unspoken words between them so that even after belligerent fights or parting life lines they automatically reset with each other the minute they cross paths again.

If it is Sylar next to him then not all is as irrefutably lost as Mohinder has come close to resigning himself to. In itself that is a noteworthy change from before. Mohinder considers that this is the beginning of the next existential quest; that everything from before, good and bad, has led to this.

Mohinder hears a commotion break out around him. He turns his head right, then left, trying to pinpoint the epicenter. He feels his hand squeezed by his mysterious comrade and returns the comforting yet worried concern. A gun or two is cocked, feet stamp across the metal floor, and voices shout out. Mohinder’s heart pounds his fright and need to break free of his restraints and fight his—their—way out of captivity.

Instinctively he tries to pull his arms up, struggling against the straps that keep his arms in place. He groans and twists, ineffectually looking for a way to discover an unforeseen loophole that will let him slide his hands free.

Suddenly the bag is removed from his head. The assault of bright light forces Mohinder to squint his eyes and adjust as fast as possible (with a muttered, “C’mon,” under his breath to speed the process along) to his surroundings. As the person kneeling in front of him transforms from a shadowy shape into a distinguishable form Mohinder smiles in shocked relief.

“Peter,” he whispers and emits a small laugh.

Peter smiles as he undoes Mohinder’s bindings. “We have to rush,” he says and nods to the floor where Mohinder sees two dead soldiers.

“Absolutely.” Mohinder begins to get up, barely registering the sight of at least twenty prisoners still locked up around him, when he feels the grip on his right hand tighten.

He looks over, vaguely regretful for who he may see, as Peter rips the bag off the prisoner’s head, revealing who has spun Mohinder’s mind through a series of inspired reflections. As the person’s focus adjusts, Mohinder halts his upward movement.

Shaking his head and scoffing, he thinks, _but of course_, at the curious absurdity that is this newest twist of fate.   
 


End file.
